The Great Christmas Knit Off

by Alexandra Brown

  ‘Ouch. Hmm, I guess that would do it.’ Lawrence tuts. ‘Well, it’s his loss!’ He stands up defiantly. ‘You know, I believe in fate, destiny, whatever you want to call it, and him not turning up happened for a reason. And do you know what that reason is?’ He has both hands on his hips now and a resolute look on his face.

  ‘Er, because he wants to be with my twin sister instead of me?’

  Lawrence does a double take, then opens and closes his mouth before swallowing hard and carrying on.

  ‘Because there’s someone far better out there for you! Now, let’s get your slap on so you can go and find him. Trust me, after you’ve clapped eyes on Adam you won’t need a doctor. Oh no. Unless it’s to resuscitate you after you’ve fainted from sheer lust.’ We both laugh. ‘You know, I met my late partner, Jason, on a blind date. Well, kind of, it was a balmy Sunday evening, standing in line for the Saturday Night Fever wrap party at Studio 54. It was 1978.’ He pauses to take a sip of his tea. ‘Yes, back in the day, this was. Anyway, I couldn’t take my eyes off the vision standing right there in front of me, looking resplendent in peach cord flares and a chest-hugging top. He had that whole Shaft thing going on.’ I frown. ‘Oh, never mind, before your time, I guess. Well, I made a beeline for him on the dance floor. You should have seen it, Sybs. It was sublime – a strawberry-hued mural of the man in the moon, with his very own coke spoon twinkling and glistening under the disco lights. Dancing away making history we were.’ He closes his eyes for a second, looking like he’s savouring the nostalgia. ‘I was very young and naive,’ he offers, by way of explanation as I try and picture the scene in my head. It’s hard; I can’t imagine Lawrence ever being naive, not when he seems so assured and worldly wise. ‘So, after a few too many glasses of Midori, we had a snog and a bit of a fumble on one of the balconies, and then he ended up back at mine testing out my new magenta silk sheets. And the rest really is history. Marvellous.’ He drains the last of his tea before placing the cup back down on the tray. ‘Oh, don’t look so scared – you’ll not end up in Adam’s bed, no, this is the sleepy, quaint little village of Tindledale, not NYC in the hedonistic Seventies. Besides, you’re a far nicer girl than I ever was.’ Lawrence winks, and I take another mouthful of tea.

  ‘Ha!’ I grin, feeling relaxed; it’s great chatting to him and so nice to just hang out and drink tea – it’s been a while. All of my free time recently has been full of dark thoughts, with Basil and my knitting to keep me company. ‘It seems strange to be talking about dating, when not so long ago I assumed I’d be married by now and, well … that would be that. Sorted. I guess.’ I shrug.

  ‘I bet it does. But lots of marriages don’t turn out the way they were intended to. You know, Jason had a wife for a while. She lives in Australia now!’ Lawrence says casually.

  ‘Really? Wow!’

  ‘Yes, Queensland, which is just so ironic when you think about it.’ He pauses to muse. ‘She went there when he eventually mustered up the courage to jump out of the closet, and confess all. Years ago this was, but she’s happily partnered now to a used-car salesman and they have three gloriously tanned grown up children together – she still sends me birthday cards every year, which is very lovely of her. We’re the best of friends and she was such a comfort to me when Jason went to the big Studio 54 in the sky.’ Lawrence smiles contemplatively.

  ‘Well … that’s refreshing,’ I say, thinking how incredible Jason’s wife must be and wondering how I might have felt if Luke had turned around and said that he much preferred men to me, after all. Although I actually think that may have hurt less than him jilting me at the altar for my twin sister. I’m convinced the feeling of hurt would have been lessened if he’d left me for a stranger, man or woman, and it still cuts me up inside that my own sister could do that to me. ‘And I’m sorry to hear about Jason. Do you miss him very much?’

  ‘I do. Every day, but it was inevitable, I guess; he was quite a bit older than me and not in the best of health towards the end. It was very peaceful though and just as he wished, at home with me,’ Lawrence explains. ‘My sadness is for him really, that he didn’t come out sooner and get to live as he truly wanted to for more of his life.’

  ‘But he had you and your life together. I’m sure that made him very happy,’ I say softly, and Lawrence leans forward to pat the top of my hand. A short silence follows as we both sit with our respective thoughts.

  I finish my tea and start dabbing a smoky eye shadow into the crease of my eyelid.

  ‘Now that’s a perfect colour on you. A touch of mascara, maybe, or how about some Cheryl lash extensions?’ Lawrence asks.

  ‘Cheryl?’ They sound fascinating.

  ‘Yes, here. That’s the name of them.’ And he reaches into the box and pulls out a dainty pair of feathery lashes. ‘The nation’s sweetheart – you know, Cheryl Cole, or Fernandez-Versini or whatever her name is now. Exquisite, isn’t she? And a phenomenal performer too – the young girls in the Tindledale Players are always trying to emulate her moves up on the stage of the village hall. But I’m not sure the villagers are quite ready for a panto with added grind just yet. And you’re going to look just like her.’ He smiles.

  ‘Ha! Hardly.’

  ‘You’re not a million miles away. Such a cracking figure and pretty face you have.’

  ‘Yeah, right. Only she’d fit twice over into my body, possibly three times, and I’d need a whole factory full of hair serum to smooth out my bushy barnet,’ I say, wondering again how Sasha, my so-called identical twin, always seems to manage to get her curls transformed into a poker straight and glossy sheet falling down her back with never a hair out of place.

  ‘Nonsense, don’t put yourself down. Now, do you want to try the lashes? We can always trim them if you think they’re too much.’

  ‘Er, I’m not sure, I don’t want to look too …’ I pause to choose my words carefully, not wanting to upset him, especially as he’s batting his diamantés at me pleadingly, ‘spectacular,’ I settle on.

  ‘Wonderful. I’ll just pick out a few for the corners and then you’ll look totally natural. Trust me, you’re going to love it; they’ll be tossing rose petals wherever you walk when I’m finished with you,’ he says in a very grand actorly style voice. Then, chuckling and shaking his head, he busies himself with gathering the equipment together.

  ‘OK then,’ I nod, with only a hint of apprehension after such a glowing guarantee. But I needn’t have worried; because when I open my eyes and look into the mirror it’s like a mini miracle. My whole face looks open and bright – even my eye bags have practically disappeared. And it feels so good. ‘They’re incredible. And subtle too,’ I tell him. I’m impressed. Grinning at myself in the mirror, I flutter my new lashes admiringly as I turn my head from side to side to get a better look from all angles. Then I reach up and give Lawrence a quick squeeze.

  ‘Thank you, I love them.’

  ‘Told you. Now, hair time.’ And he darts around behind the chair, whips the towel from my head and starts combing through. ‘Big?’ he asks, widening his eyes hopefully and holding a length of my hair out sideways, letting the comb hover in mid-air.

  ‘OK. But not too big, I don’t want to look like Beyoncé about to go on stage as I walk down Tindledale High Street.’

  ‘Point taken.’

  Using a big cylindrical brush, Lawrence funnels the hot air from the hairdryer down and around sections of my hair before teasing the brush free and scooping up another section and repeating the process all over again, each time gathering speed.

  ‘Voila! How’s that for madam,’ he eventually declares, grabbing a round mirror and holding it behind my back. I twist my head to get a better look, loving how he’s managed to get my bedraggled, snowswept curls cascading in a way I’ve never managed to before.

  ‘Oh, Lawrence I love it.’ I stand up and give him a hug.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ he says modestly, ‘as our Chezza says, it’s because you’re worth it.’ He hugs me back an
d then takes both my hands in his and squeezes them gently. ‘And don’t you ever forget it.’ He pulls a stern face, pretending to chastise me. I look into his eyes, thinking what a lovely, kind man he is. I’m so glad I came to Tindledale – I would never have met him otherwise. Maybe Cher not being here happened for a reason too – not that Lawrence is better than Cher, just different, and exactly what I needed today.

  There’s a knock on the door, breaking the moment, and a few seconds later the door swings inwards and a woman appears with a nonchalant look on her face. Tall and slim, she’s wearing a lemon-yellow padded ski jacket and denim Daisy Dukes over thick opaque tights with knee-high wedged boots. She has scarlet shoulder length hair set in a Dita Von Teese style, her face is a flawless powdery white and she has cherry red lips and smoky grey eyes. She’s breathtakingly beautiful and so sexy looking. Luminescent. Oh God, I think I may have my first girl crush – I have to forcibly resist the overwhelming urge to stroke her hair.

  ‘Hello, Lawrence,’ she says throatily, and even her voice sounds super sexy.

  ‘Ruby, this is Sybs. Sybs, this is Ruby, she owns the vintage clothes shop on the High Street,’ Lawrence says by way of an introduction. Ah, of course she does. We smile and shake hands. ‘Did you bring the clothes?’ he asks. I grin awkwardly, bobbing from one foot to the other as she casts a lazy look over my body.

  ‘Of course. And in a range of sizes too.’ And she turns and sashays back out of the room, leaving me to wonder what her verdict is.

  ‘Don’t mind her, she’s a poppet really. We’re the best of friends and I knew she’d help you out with some clothes.’ Lawrence picks up a silver-embossed cigarette case, selects a cigarillo and lights one up before offering it to me. I shake my head. ‘Are you sure? I find them very restorative.’ He smiles.

  ‘No, really, thank you,’ I grin, inhaling anyway. There’s just something about the nostalgic waft of a cigar – it reminds me of my granddad, he was a big cigar fan too. Keeping the cigarillo for himself, Lawrence pushes open a window to puff the smoke out into the cold snowy air. ‘You won’t tell anyone will you? Only it’s not really a public place this room,’ he says, draping himself across a padded window seat before flicking the ash outside. He winks at me before pulling his cigarillo hand back in to brush a smattering of snowflakes away. I shake my head and smile in agreement.

  Ruby returns with a pile of clothes under her left arm and holds a pair of skinny jeans out towards me, dangling them by the belt loop on the end of a pillar-box red polished fingertip. I peer at the jeans suspiciously, as they look very small.

  ‘Try them. They’re your size.’ She dips her head slightly to one side as reassurance. I hesitate. Lawrence and Ruby are both staring at me, so I slip my soggy Converse off. And oh my God, what is that pong? Oh no. To my shame I realise it’s the trainers, still damp from the snow and sweaty like an old wheel of Brie: my feet officially reek like a thirteen-year-old boy’s bedroom. Eewww! Lawrence thoughtfully sweeps the offending shoes across the floor and straight into the naughty corner.

  ‘Here,’ Lawrence gestures to a curtained section of the room, ‘you can change behind there.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, shuffling away gratefully, hoping the whiff evaporates very quickly. A few minutes later and I have the jeans up and buttoned. They fit perfectly. I poke my head around the curtain and Ruby hands me a top – a gorgeous polka dot chiffon blouse with a Forties’ pussycat bow. I slip my arms in and she does the tiny little buttons up for me before tying the bow just right.

  ‘Oh, you’re good, Rubes. The clothes look like they were made for Sybs,’ Lawrence says, closing the window and joining us by the mirror after I push the curtain back, feeling like a woman on one of those TV makeover shows.

  ‘Well, it is my job to guess a woman’s size,’ Ruby smiles, confidently.

  ‘Thank you, Ruby, you’re a lifesaver.’ I grin, feeling chuffed that I’ve made it into a size ten. But then it’s hardly a wonder as I’ve had no appetite and have been surviving on mainly party ring biscuits, Haribo Strawbs and the occasional fried chicken leg from the place on the corner of my street.

  ‘No problem, but you can’t keep them. The jeans are from my designer range. Oh, I nearly forgot – you’ll be needing these too.’ She hands me three pairs of gorgeous silk knickers. ‘You can have them on the house.’

  ‘Thanks so much,’ I say impulsively, but then quickly add, ‘Oh, no I can’t just take them. Please, let me give you some money.’ They’re proper expensive French lace, but she just lifts an elegant hand to brush my offer aside.

  ‘Oh wow! Then thank you very much,’ I say, clasping the knickers to me. My big old cotton clangers won’t know what’s hit them when these appear beside them in my underwear drawer. ‘And of course I’ll bring the blouse and jeans right back to you.’ I grin again. ‘Mine should be dried out soon, with a bit of luck. They got drenched and covered in muck with all that trudging in the snow so I rinsed them and now they’re hanging up over the bath …’ I stop talking, feeling feeble, and I’m sure she doesn’t want to be bothered with the minutiae of my wardrobe malfunctions.

  ‘Sybs, you didn’t need to do that. You could have used the washing machine. Fetch them down later and you can run them through the tumble dryer,’ Lawrence says.

  ‘Thank you. I didn’t think to ask earlier, but that would be great,’ I smile.

  ‘Wonderful,’ Ruby says, and I make a mental note to return the clothes as soon as possible – I can’t wait to have a nose around her shop. ‘And Lawrence can return the favour by way of cake – I take it you do have a selection?’ Ruby purrs as she hooks her right arm around Lawrence’s neck and smacks a big lipsticky kiss on his cheek. I glance away, feeling self-conscious and a bit in awe of her charisma.

  ‘OK, that’s enough,’ Lawrence chides, as he leans into a mirror and wipes the smudge away with a tissue plucked from a silver box on the shelf.

  ‘Oh, you love it really,’ Ruby teases, in Lawrence’s direction. ‘Now, slight problem with footwear … what size are you?’ She turns back to face me with a quizzical look on her face.

  ‘Er, a seven.’ I wish I had dainty little feet like hers.

  ‘Mmm, well, I can’t give you a new pair because I need to sell them and I shan’t be able to if they’ve been worn; different story if I had some genuine vintage ones in stock but I’m all out of them at the moment. The blouse is fine to be sold on and the jeans I can use in the Christmas window display when you’ve finished with them. I’m planning a traditional tobogganing scene – jeans, festive knitwear, Christmas jumpers, bobble hats and scarves, that kind of thing. Very kitsch, very It’s a Wonderful Life,’ she says, having it all worked out.

  ‘Ah, I love that film,’ I beam.

  ‘Oh, me too,’ both Ruby and Lawrence say in unison.

  ‘And I could help you with the window display,’ I suggest, feeling excited.

  ‘How?’ she says in a very direct, businesslike way.

  ‘Um, I knit. It’s my passion, and needlecraft, crochet, and quilting … I love it all. And I have a pile of Christmas jumpers in my spare bedroom at home.’

  ‘Do you indeed? Well, I’d like to see them. When can you show me?’

  ‘I’m here until Sunday so I could post a selection to you on Monday?’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Or you could knit one while you’re here,’ Lawrence suggests. ‘You know, as a teaser until Tuesday when the rest arrive. Hettie will have everything you need.’

  ‘Er …’ I open my mouth to explain but Ruby does it for me.

  ‘Don’t be daft, Lawrence, I’m sure Sybil can’t knit a whole jumper in a matter of days.’ They both turn to me with expectant looks on their faces.

  ‘It really depends on the size of the project – the yarn, knitting needles, complexity, that kind of thing.’

  ‘OK. Well, how about a super-chunky jumper with a fairly simple pattern on the front, like a Christmas pudding?’ Ruby lifts a perfectly groo
med eyebrow and I nod my head, keen to help her out after she’s been so generous to me.

  ‘That’s certainly doable, if I make a start right away.’ Three days. It’s tight, but I’m willing to give it a very good go. Ruby claps her hands together, seemingly pleased with the plan. I smile inwardly, remembering my decision from earlier about going after my dream in a different way, and now one of my creations is going to be in a real shop window. And who knows, somebody might actually want to buy it?

  ‘And I can drop you at Hettie’s on my way back to the High Street,’ Ruby says, ‘the lanes are almost clear now, Pete was out with the tractor first thing. Good job the parish news people invested in that snowplough attachment last winter or we’d all be stranded by now. Lawrence, where are those cowboy boots? We need to hurry up now so Sybil can get knitting.’

  ‘Cowboy boots?’ Lawrence asks.

  ‘That’s right, the ones from 9 to 5, the Dolly Parton musical you staged last year,’ she says, sounding impatient now. ‘Get them for me, please.’ Ruby waves a ‘hurry up’ hand in his direction, and my heart sinks. I can’t waltz into a bookshop to check out a mystery man wearing Dolly Parton boots. Lawrence does as he’s told and starts rummaging around in the cupboard.

  ‘Oh, it’s fine. I can wear my Converse. Really, it’ll be alright,’ I say, not even daring to ask how much her boots cost to buy after spotting the Ralph Lauren label inside the jeans. I quickly grab the Converse from the corner and push my left foot back into the still-soggy trainer while Ruby throws both her hands onto her hips, before glaring down at my feet. Lawrence even stops flinging a pair of Puss in Boots thigh slappers around the room to stare at me too. Silence follows as Ruby sizes me up. Lawrence pulls a face behind her back and then instantly busies himself back in the cupboard when she throws a daggers’ look in his direction. She’s circling me now, head tilted, as she supports her chin with a thumb and index finger, pondering on an alternative solution, I hope. But I can sense that she’s not feeling the love for the stinky-feet grunge look that I have going on, oh no.